Cassandra: Consulting Detective No2
by LaFay97
Summary: Cassandra Beckett was Australia's leading detective. However, Scotland Yard needs her skills more and she is promptly moved to London, England. As she works with Scotland Yard to catch a serial Killer she meets Sherlock Holmes, the High functioning Sociopath, who she has to work with. Can she solve the Consulting Detective as well as the Murders? Sherlock/OC
1. Consulting Detective

**Cassandra: The Consulting Detective No.2**

I sipped at my coffee gleefully as my eyes roamed the office room. I always hated doing the paper work that came along with being a detective, any kind of distraction would be welcome. I lived for action, I enjoyed the rush of adrenaline and the pumping intoxication. Sitting around filling out documents was a spectrum of serious boredom for me. My eyes dropped down to the files again. Alex Hardy, found dead in his parent's basement. This one was so painfully easy to solve. It was simple, Alex had found out about his step-father's abuse to his younger sister and stormed over to the house to assault Mr Davidson, but was unaware of the older mans history in mixed martial arts. So when he went over there, the Step-father beat him bloody. Worried about his wife finding out about it, he shove Alex in the basement and promptly got drunk afterward. When Mrs Davidson came home, finding a drunk husband, she simply went about her house duties as per normal, when she went to do the washing, she found the dead body of her son. The other detectives and police force had been surprised when I came out of the house of the crime scene ten minutes after I had gone in and given them this information. After some work, they found all this to be true. I rolled my eyes at the memory. Things would go so much more efficiently and quickly if they simply listened to me when i told them. A little bit of trust would be nice. Yet, I understand why they would investigate further, it's hard for cops to take the word from a woman, especially an intelligent woman.

"Detective Beckett, there's a man here to see you," one of the rookies told me sheepishly at the door. I nodded.

"Okay, let him in." I stood and stretched out my sore spine. My gaze found the paperwork once more and glared spitefully at it. You are the bane of my back. A knock at the door sounded and I looked over to find a medium sized man with iron coloured hair and brown eyes. I scanned him over once, a Detective from London I'd wager.

"Hello, I'm Detective Lestrade, Scotland Yard," he introduced as he shook my hand. What a guess?

"Detective Beckett. How can I help you?"

"Well, this is going to sound odd, but I've heard about you. They say you're the best detective in Australia?" he gave a small smile, it softened out his face. I rolled my shoulders nervously. I didn't like compliments all that much, they made me squirm.

"I do my job best I can," I answered.

"Well, your best is just what we need right now in London. The Higher Ups evaluated your profile and decided you would be of more use in England than here. If you should like, that is." I frowned.

They really wanted me to go over to London? It wasn't like I had anything keeping me here. The work was beginning to get dull and I had no close family or friends. Maybe London would be good for something different. A bit of adventure?

"What's the catch?" I asked, picking up my coffee mug and cradling the cold cup as if to revive it's warmth. Lestrade's gaze flickered. He seemed anxious...or worried.

"A different job description, of sorts." I frowned again.

"What?" I inquired.

"Consulting Detective," He told me seriously. My eyebrow shot up and I looked at the older man incredulously.

"Are you kidding me? There's no such thing."

"No, there is. It's just there is only one other person in the world with the title."

"Who?"

"Sherlock Holmes." He looked at me expectantly, but my mind was running blank. I had no idea who this man was or why he had a title like 'Consulting Detective'.

"I don't know who that is," I said bluntly. His brown eyes widened.

"Oh, well, he invented the job." I nodded slowly.

"And this man, do I have to meet him?"

"Well, yes, being that as soon as he finds out we've given the title to someone else, he will probably want answers."

"I see, anything I should worry about?"

"He will take a single look at you and declare your life story. He will also probably try to convince us that you are not worthy of the title. It's best to ignore him." Great. He sounded arrogant, interesting, but arrogant.

"I see no problem with moving to London to help the Scotland Yard, even if I do have to encounter Mr Holmes. When will I be expected?"

"A month?"

"No worries, I'll call you in a month to let you know of my arrival," for the first time in the whole conversation I smiled at the other detective. He seemed to brighten at this too.

"I'll be waiting, Beckett." With that, he left the office and I was left with a cold cup of coffee. Then it dawned on me. I would have to find a place in London.

I got home late, as per usual. My home was a modern house in the Melbourne Suburbs. It was neat and tidy, guess I wasn't really home enough to mess it up. I walked through the front door and smelt vanilla, my home always smelt of that. It was my favorite sent. I dumped my handbag onto a recliner and went straight through to find my cat, Loki. I found the black cat curled up on my bed with a cute little smile on his face. I poked him in the side and Loki opened his eyes. Large green eyes stared at me, pupils adjusting to the sudden light.

"Meow?" I stroked his smooth fur.

"Hello, Loki. Guess what? We're going to be moving to London!"

"Mmrow..." he stretched up and looked at me lazily.

"Oh, you'll like it." I stood up and headed for the shower. My shoulder muscles were aching after doing all that damned paperwork.

My hand slid across the misty glass, leaving streaks of water running down the mirror. My indigo eyes were slightly distorted in the reflection. I wiped my hand over the rest of the glass. My pale skin showing up slightly pink after the hot shower. My long brown hair looked black when it was wet. My eyes trailed down my skin to the shiny silver scars that were scattered over my body. To the untrained eye, they are rather random. However, the patterns were particular...

I turned away from the steamy glass and got changed and dried my hair. I sat down at my desk with a cup of coffee and opened my laptop. Place, places, places... after about three hours of searching, I finally found a place. A quaint little building, 219b Baker Street. A nice little cafe next door. Not expensive either. I called the number on the website.

"Hello, this is Amalie Green," a middle aged, English woman's voice said across the line.

"Hello, my name is Cassandra Beckett, I was interested in the flat in 219b?" The line was dead for a minute.

"Really?" the woman asked genuinely surprised.

"Yes, I'm moving to London, and the place seemed nice," I folded myself onto the couch and began my routine of contorting my body as I talked. I rolled upside down, my hair pooled on the ground and my legs over the back.

"Oh, well, I-yes. Sorry, I've had that up on the website for years. No one is ever interested, or, at least not for long." I frowned at my upside down lounge room.

"Oh? Any reason for that in particular?"

"Neighbours." She sighed heavily on the phone.

"Are they bad?" I asked. Man, it felt weird raising my eyebrows upside down.

"Oh, well, one of them in particular is just difficult to get along with," her voice wavered over the phone in wariness.

"I'm sure I'll handle it."

"Well, if you're sure. I'll send you the paperwork." I exchanged email addresses with her. I stared at my upside down room, all the blood rushing to my head. I sat up quickly and got the worst head spin. I wonder how different things will be in London?


	2. Welcome to London

**Cassandra: Consulting Detective No.2**

It was cold. It was so fucking cold. I stepped out of the airport and was instantly drenched in rain. I had, luckily, researched London and had packed appropriately. Dressed in dark blue denim jeans, knee high boots, a fitted red dress shirt in feminine tailoring and a mid-thigh length black jacket. I struggled with my bags to get out my umbrella, almost dropping things. The pitter-patter of rain was slightly comforting to me. I admit, I hated the heat. So this cold was nice, but a rather large shock after the summer of Australia. I hailed a taxi. Little black cars, I thought they were a movie thing, but no, here they were.

"Where to miss?" the driver asked in a south- London accent.

"219b Baker street?" The driver looked at me in rear-vision mirror.

"You sure you're not meaning 221b?" I frowned.

"No. 219b, please."

"No worries, miss. So, you from Australia, yeah?"

"Uh, Yeah."

"What's it like in London for you, luv?"

"Cold." I shifted uncomfortably. The driver laughed.

About half an hour later I arrived at my new home. I stepped out into the afternoon rain, uncaring of it anymore. I looked up at the buildings in front of me. I looked at the windows to my apartment. Next to which were the windows to 221b Baker street. I frowned. Yes, there was definitely someone watching me through the window. I ignored who I presumed to be the 'bad neighbour'.

I walked to the door and knocked, leaving the handle to the right of the hinge. The door opened in a matter of seconds. A woman stood in the door. Her light brown hair was cut short above her shoulders. Her face was lined with middle-age going on older. Her eyes were a dark hazel with a considerable amount of brown. She was quite short too, and absolutely no curve to her. I instantly felt fat next to this petite woman. I knew rationally that I wasn't, I just had curves, but I couldn't help my insecurities.

"You must be Cassandra?" her voice sounded exactly the same as it did on the phone.

"That's me." I gave her an awkward smile. She ushered me inside.

"Let's get you inside before you catch a cold, dear." I entered the house and looked around. It was cozy. Two doors on this level and one on top of stairs. I turned to Ms Green.

"This is a nice place." She smiled at me.

"It's fairly run down. I haven't had a tenant in months. I've cleaned upstairs for you. So no need to worry about dust bunnies. Here is your key, if you need anything just shout. Oh, also, I'm going to be going on a holiday soon, so if anything needs to get done, let me know as soon as you can, dear."

"No worries, Ms Green."

"Oh, god, please call me Amy. I don't like to feel my age." I smiled at her and headed up towards my flat.

If she didn't want to be reminded of her age, she shouldn't use language like 'dear'. Maybe it was an English thing?

I opened the door with a bronze '219b' number on it. The door creaked something horribly. Calling out like a dying machine. The place itself was not a bad place. It was nothing like my modern suburban home. It had nice wallpaper. The Victorian's had it right, I swear. I caught a glimpse of something on the wall closest to the flat next door that had the peeking person. I put down my things and crept over to the wall. It had holes in it, bullet holes. I looked it over, definitely coming from the other side of the wall. I ran my fingers over the holes. Dust. They were certainly not new. I frowned at the wall.

"Ppprrrrow!" Loki whined from his cage. I gasped and ran over to the carrier. It was a bitch to get him into the country.

"Sorry, Loki, here you go." I opened the cage at the black cat sprang free and bounded over to the wind seal, jumped up and began licking his fur, trying to look like he still had dignity.

I had sent over my furniture a few weeks prior, so it was scattered all over the place. I would have to sort this mess out. Maybe I could get some help with this? I looked over to the bullet holes in the wall. Then again, probably not.

It was midnight by the time I had most of the rooms sorted. My bedroom remained untouched. I hobbled over to the couch and collapsed. Now, to finally sleep off this jet-lag.

The sun poured through the window as if it owned the bloody place. I wish I could tell it to fuck off. I swung my legs and stretched out my stiff back. I breathed in the musky air and almost choked. I was so used to vanilla. Without hesitation I rummaged around for a few scented candles and sprung them up around the place. That was better,..OH GOD WHAT WAS THAT SMELL? I retched and looked around the room. There, on the carpet, was Loki, playing with what looked like an eyeball.

"LOKI! Where the hell did you get that thing? Please tell me you haven't decided that Londoners taste good..." I grabbed the eyeball away from the cat, who meowed in annoyance. I looked at the thing. It was old. The whites were yellow in colour and the iris was cloudy blue-white. It smelt like god-knows-what.

A knock sounded at my door. I went over to it and opened. A rather short man stood there. He looked a little awkward and very tired. He had wary lines in his face and a short mousy blonde-grey haircut. His brown eyes were kind though. I smiled at him.

"How can I help you?" I asked the man. I looked him over quickly. An army man, I was betting, out of it for a while, but still somehow seeing a lot of action. he hadn't been to sleep in maybe 32 hours, but was still trying to be pleasant. So he was a people pleaser.

"Hello, uh, My name is John Watson, I live next door. I'm sorry if I've bothered you, and, Uh, this is going to sound strange, but my flat mate sent me over here to ask if you...possibly had an eyeball?" he looked sorry about it, but he was earnest. I held out my closed hand to him and let the eyeball drop onto his outstretched palm.

"Yeah, my cat got a hold of it. My name is Cassy by the way. Uh, so, just out of curiosity...why do you have an eyeball?" John shifted his weight. I examined him again. The signs show he clearly wasn't a fan of the reason behind the need of an eyeball. I smelt an odd chemical on the eyeball as well as the stink, so I'm guessing it was an experiment. Was the next door neighbour Frankenstein? John caught me looking at him and he opened his mouth as if to say something, but then closed it in though.

"He likes to experiment. Nothing bad, or anything..." he stumbled a little over his words, because let's face it. Saying your flat mate likes to experiment with eyeballs is a little bit of a weird conversation topic.

"I'm sorry, but are you from Australia?" he asked with a half smile.

"That's right. Just moved here actually," I gave him a bright grin.

"Oh, well, Welcome to London."

"Thank you, John. Have fun with your...uh, eyeball." I gave him a humorous grin which he returned.

I was finally dressed and ready to go. Lestrade had said not to bother with work for at least a week. I couldn't wait that long. I locked up my apartment and through the rest of the building until I was outside in the chilly London winter. I looked around the street, it seemed fairly unoccupied. Everything was a heightened level of everything. I felt electric.

I stepped into the police office building. It was cool crisp and pretty much just like any I had ever been in. Except everyone was spoke in English accents. I spotted Lestrade talking to a darker skinned woman with curly brown hair. He dismissed her and she turned around, potted me and narrowed her eyes. Great. I could tell that was the 'girl hate' that some girls get when they see someone they think is prettier than them. I merely rolled my eyes and continued on my way to Lestrade.

"Detective."

"Ah, Cassandra! Didn't expect you in for another week."

"I get bored easily."

"Huh, maybe you guys will get on then?"

"Who?"

"Oh, Sherlock. He gets bored too, but he still wont take some cases."

"Interesting."

"Why are you in?"

"To work?" Greg frowned. He cocked his head to the side.

"We don't have a case for you yet, that's the thing about being a consulting detective, we only ask your help when we're stuck. Which, is a lot, but we'll call you to come in."

"Oh. What do I do in the mean time?"

"Uh. Well, I guess you could just go home and relax for a bit, yeah?"

"Oh, okay. Right, see you when you need me." I had to wait for work. Fan-fucking-tastic.


	3. Did She Just?

**Cassandra: Consulting Detective No.2**

John left the young woman's apartment in confusion. He saw it the minute she laid eyes on him. The exact same look Sherlock has when he is deducing someone. She did it twice. The second time he was convinced. He headed back to his flat.  
"Sherlock?" he called out. His taller friend appeared already dressed and looking neat. Which meant he hadn't slept, just like John. Only Sherlock did the whole not sleeping thing better.  
"Yes, John?" Sherlock asked in his deep baritone voice.  
"I got your eyeball." He gave the thing over to Sherlock who studied in closely, about to walk off, when his grey blue eyes focused on John's brown ones. "What is it?"  
"That woman, the neighbour, Cassy, she did what you do." John nodded as he spoke, keeping his tones even. Sherlock straightened, a muscle jumped in his cheek.  
"What do you mean?"  
"She opened the door and the second she saw me, I could tell she had deduced me, just like you, only she didn't comment out loud."  
"Then how do you know that she did, John?"  
"I see you do it all the time, I can tell the look, Sherlock." John cocked his head disapprovingly at his sociopath friend.  
"I highly doubt she has the cognitive ability to do what I do, John. She was probably just examining you for sexual purposes." John frowned even deeper and went slightly pink.  
"I don't think so Sherlock. Just you wait until you meet her. You'll see."  
"I hope I never have the displeasure." John growled and stalked off further into their flat. Sherlock looked at where John left. What on earth had he said now? It's hardly his problem if he has trouble believing someone other than Mycroft and he can possibly have the power of deduction. She may be observant, but that was possibly as far as it goes.

XxX Sherlock XxX

I paced around my flat, straightening things for the 12th time as I went. I was so endlessly bored. I didn't know anyone. Except for Lestrade. Also, John from next door. An idea finally perked into my head. I wonder if he wanted to go get lunch or something? I put on my coat and left the flat. I skipped up the steps and knocked at the door. An elderly woman with a kind face opened the door.  
"Oh, hello? How can I help, love?" She asked in a soft voice.  
"Uh, hi? Does John Watson live here?"  
"Oh, yes, he's in the flat upstairs. Would you like to go through?"  
"That'd be great, thanks!"

I stepped into 221 and looked around. Neat. Old and rough around the edges. I could tell this place had had break-ins, fights...many people go up to 221b, by the looks of the carpet and the indentations and marks of many different sized feet. I rolled my eyes up the stairs. That door was so abused. I walked up the stairs and knocked on the door. When the door opened I smelt the overwhelming scent of men, old books, dust and an underlying smell of chemicals. John stood looking rather surprised to see me there.

"Heya, John," I greeted.  
"Hello, Cassy. H-how can I help you?"  
"Oh, I was just wondering if you wanted to go get lunch. I'm very bored. My work isn't really picking up yet." I felt bashful and awkward.  
"Yeah, yes, sure. Do you want me to see if my flat mate wants to come along?" Gun crazy experimenter?  
"Sure," I said a little nervously.  
"Come on in, Cassy." He stood aside and closed the door behind me.

Oh, this place was interesting. I could make out so much...  
"Do you want to come to lunch with Cassy and I?" I heard John calling into a room, I couldn't hear the reply.  
"You have nothing to do, come out and meet the neighbour," John scolded the person.  
"Stop being immature," John whispered harshly.

I wandered around the living area. I spotted the kitchen and cringed. Why on earth would you do experiments in your kitchen? The living room was full of books and odd things. A violin sat beside a chair. I looked at it. It was played often and well, judging by the almost non-existent scrapes along the neck. It looked in great nick...  
"Sorry, he's feeling unsociable today," John said coming into the room, pulling on a jacket over his sweater.  
"No worries from me, mate." I didn't really want to meet him anyway. I bet he was the violin player though.

John and I went to a little cafe just down the road. It was quaint and we just talked about a whole pile of random things. His flat mate did not come up in conversation again. I was just in the middle of laughing to a joke when my phone rang.  
"Beckett," I said in a dead panned voice.  
"It's Lestrade, we've finally got a case for you," he didn't sound pleased about it however.  
"Where?" "- Fisherton street, Greater London, how long do'ya reckon it'll take you?"  
"Five minutes, tops"  
"Good," he hung up.  
"I'm sorry, John. I've gotta go. Catch up later, okay?" I spieled quickly as I stood. John sat there looking baffled. I rushed out of the cafe, bumping into someone who seemed in a rush to get in. I didn't have time to look who it was. I was ready for working, finally.

XxX Sherlock XxX

_ Finally, something interesting_! Sherlock thought as he walked over the coffee table to rush to the door. He had to get John. He grabbed his scarf and coat and sped out the door. Forgetting to lock the door. Sherlock paced down the street to that cafe that the new woman had dragged John to. He was about to enter the cafe when he felt something bash into his side. When he turned to look, all he saw was a head of bouncy brown hair tied in a pony tail. _A professional woman? It doesn't matter, I have far more important things to attend to_.  
"John, JOHN!" the detective called as he sped towards John.  
"What is it Sherlock?" John asked warily. Sherlock smiled a half-smile, John knew exactly what was happening and stood.  
"A murder, John, not just one, but three. All the same. A serial murderer!" Sherlock said in hushed excitement. John cast his eyes around the cafe to see several rather disturbed people looking at them.  
"Okay, Sherlock. But remember what happened last time you said that?"  
"Oh, please, John. Not every Serial killer is the same! I doubt that the cabbie will walking around after you shot him."  
"Yeah, well, just, keep it down alright? That cabbie led to Moriarty." Sherlock raised his eyebrow at John, who instantly felt like he had said something stupid. "We've got to go John," Sherlock had completely resigned from his earlier excitement and gone back to his usual cold self.

XxX Sherlock XxX

I glided over to the yellow tape as soon as I stepped out of my car. My first murder scene in London. I ducked under the tape and was instantly stopped by the curly haired woman.  
"Who are you?"  
"I'm Detective Cassandra Beckett, I'm here on request of Detective Inspector Lestrade." My voice completely changed from how it usually is. It grew colder and even, unlike my usual bubbly and warm voice.  
"Oh, I heard about you, not really a detective anymore, yeah? 'Consulting Detective' like that Freak." I felt my gaze zero onto her brown eyes.  
"What is you name?"  
"Detective Donovan."  
"Great, Detective Donovan, get the fuck out of my way so I can do your job for you." I pushed past her, leaving her utterly speechless.

I found my way to the stiff. Lestrade looked grimmer than usual.  
"Detective Inspector," I said by way of greeting.  
"Hey, Cassandra. We'll have our other expert here soon, so you better hurry before he gets here." I blinked at the man before inspecting the scene. We were behind a home, I could see a woman crying inside, behind glass doors. I looked her over. Her had short red hair and running make-up. I looked over everything in the scene. It was truly gruesome. A...man was hung against a giant cross, he was completely naked and had incisions along all his joints so that as he hung, it would slowly tear at his skin. His head was gone, it was nowhere to be seen. I looked around for it. No, they must have taken it. Souvenir? I Stepped forward to get a closer look. He had 'Sinner' carved into his chest. I looked around the yard. There was no blood on the ground... my head span.

"Okay, so this man was killed elsewhere then taken here. No, dragged here. The bottom of the cross has scrapes along it, huh...he was killed even before they cut off his head. Poison I would presume. They then dragged him here and hung him up. For his mistress to see I presume-"  
"How do you know that's his mistress?"  
"Well, her excessive amount of make-up and lack of a wedding ring. The fact that she keeps looking around the yard, as if at any moment she expects the wife to come through. And yeah, I can tell he was married. Although he was stripped, there is indentation and a tan line where the wedding band used to be. So, I guess you could always look at the wife, whoever she is. Otherwise, an angry member of their religion who found out about it."  
"Oh, yeah, that's really good, Cassandra. Now, what can you tell me if you found out there have been 2 others exactly like this?" I frowned.  
"Oh, well, then I'd have to say a religious enthusiast. Who are the others?"  
"James Braightwait and Anabelle Wright."  
"Damn, so not just men then? Okay. Well, I'd need some time to do some research..."  
"Cassy?" I heard an inquisitive voice behind me. I turned and saw John with a tall, lean and handsome man. He seemed cold, however. I looked at him. He was already examining the scene, whilst pretending to be bored. I would be anything this was Sherlock Holmes. Why is John here?

"Hey, John!"  
"What are you doing here?"  
"I could ask you the same thing. I'm a Consulting Detective." The tall man and John both stared at me, although different expressions.  
"You? They gave the title to someone else?" the man spoke in a deep voice that vibrated along my spine.  
"Oh, nice to meet you too. You must be Sherlock Holmes," I said sarcastically.  
"You gave someone else my title?" Sherlock asked Lestrade.  
"She's good enough, Sherlock. She might even do things that you can't be bothered to."  
"Oh, please. I doubt she could tell John what his occupation was."  
"Army Doctor." I mumbled. All three looked at me.  
"How did-" John began, before shaking his head.  
"I could tell you were army when I met you. But the doctor bit I found out because you opened your wallet and I saw your ID that said Dr. John H Watson. You didn't even bat a lash when I handed you that eyeball."  
"Oh, please. Spare yourself the humiliation, go back to Australia. Anyone with half a brain could tell John was an army doctor," Sherlock snarled at me. I frowned at him and put on my own icy stare.  
"You're a very nasty man, Mr Holmes."  
"Yes. I have been told this on many occasions."  
"Must be hard for any addict who's only good at two things to have someone else who may also be good." Sherlock clenched his jaw. John's jaw dropped. Lestrade pretended not to hear.  
"What two things am I good at?"  
"A) your job and b) being an asshole."  
"Oh yes, I am very good at my job. Guess you have no use here."  
"Okay."  
"So just- what?"  
"Okay, you're clearly the expert, you've been the only one to have this title for a while now, I'm new, I have no idea what I'm doing."  
"Beckett...your-" Lestrade began before I brought my finger to my lips. Sherlock narrowed his bright blue gaze.  
"At least you seem to have some sense. Now let me do my job." I shrugged at him and stood next to John and Lestrade as he zoomed around the murder scene.

I watched his cat-like graces. He did know what he was doing, there was no denying that.  
"He was killed elsewhere, I'd say drugged, then dragged here. Where they cut off his head and made the incisions in his joints. I would say a religious attack due to the message in his chest. Probably a message to the mistress. Considering there were others, I'd say not however. I'd say we had a religious nut attacking 'sinners', leaving them as a message." He looked back at Lestrade. He was waiting to be proven right.  
"Nice, Sherlock. Pretty much everything you said, Cassandra told me first. I think you owe her an apology. I didn't bring her here from Australia to work with a child." Sherlock zoomed his gaze on me. Oh, he was not going to apologizing.

"Okay, I get all that. Why would they make the incisions in the arms in he was already dead and couldn't feel it?" John asked the two of us. Simultaneously, we opened our mouth and then closed them. Why _did_ they do that?


	4. Morbid Issues

**Cassandra: Consulting Detective No. 2**

I slammed the door to flat 219b and stalked across my lounge area. my eyes caught the bullet holes in my wall and rage filled me. That bloody man was a nightmare! Not only did I have to work with him, but also I lived next to him?

Loki sauntered up to me, his large green eyes staring at me.  
"Ppreow." I frowned at the black cat.  
"Well, you weren't there, he's insane!" Loki stared at me. "You're right. I am the one talking to a cat," I sighed.

Loki mewed loudly as I picked him up and coddled him to my chest. He was really the only friend that I had. However, John might make a good friend as long as he doesn't come with Sherlock, I do not want a package deal on this. Sherlock was the kind of guy you really didn't want to meet more than once. Or at all, if you could help it. He was unpleasant, arrogant, rude and incredibly horrid. He was intelligent however. His only good trait as far as I can tell. He did know what he was doing, there was no denying that. He came up with his response way faster than I could have done. This still doesn't compensate for the complete lack of humanity.

I woke the next morning with a giant headache. My mind was reeling from the case and the extremities of Sherlock Holmes, I could hardly get enough sleep. I rolled out of my comforting blankets and stumbled towards my bathroom to shower. When I had finished, I dressed in black skinny-leg jeans, a white blouse with a red leather jacket and knee-high boots. I tied my softly curling hair into a high pony-tail and made my way to the kitchen, where I made myself a nice hot cup of coffee. The warm bitter-sweet blend was liquid happiness in the morning. I felt the buzz almost instantaneously. Feeling happier than I had since I got home last night I decided to go get breakfast at the café next door.

It was a usual cloudy morning in England, so I, naturally, was freezing to hell. I bet British people feel the exact opposite of how I feel when they go to Australia. I stepped mercifully into the café where the temperature was far more tolerable. I ordered a cup of tea (just to try) and an English Breakfast Muffin. Which was actually quite appetizing. I wasn't really a fan of the tea however. People in Australia do drink tea, I was just not one of them. My phone buzzed and I checked the ID. Lestrade. I opened the message.

**Get to St Bart's. Examine bodies. **

Ah, I can see he was feeling very sociable this morning. I paid for my breakfast and made my way to the street where I hailed a cab. St Bart's was a fairly old hospital that towered high and mighty. It didn't take to long to find the morgue however. Just ask a person and they solemnly give you directions whilst looking at you with both intrigue and disgust. Speaking of, I hope to god Sherlock wasn't invited.

I entered a neat little room where I found a woman working on some samples. She looked up as I entered with a confused and rather nervous glance. Her self-consciousness coming through as her eyes scrolled me from head to toe. She was pretty though, despite her insecurities. Her long hair was an interesting blend of chocolate and honey. Her eyes were an innocent shade of brown. She was older than me, but pleasantly so.  
"Hello," I greeted with a warm smile which she returned instantly.  
"Ah, hi. Um, why-what...uh, can I help you?" she fumbled. I smiled even more.  
"Yeah, I'm Consulting Detective Cassandra Beckett, I was just wondering if I could look at the bodies for the recent...ah...crucifixion cases." She frowned at me and tilted her head, she looked slightly offended at something I said, but not enough for dislike.  
"I'm sorry? Consulting Detective? I thought..."  
"There was only one? Well, they got another one. Me, hello. Yeah, I'm Number 2," I said with a half-smile just to try an lighten her up.  
"Oh. Okay...well..." her words ran away from her as she tried to think of how to react.  
"I, ah, take it you know Mr Holmes then?" I watched with fascination as her face simultaneously lit up and turned a shade of pink at the mention of his name. Oh, looks like someone had a crush. I was a little worried about her choice of suitor though.  
"Ah- yeah yes. I know Sherlock...we're, ah, friends. Yes, friends..." I wiggled my eyebrows at her.  
"Yeah, I bet." The woman turned a bright shade of red.  
"What's your name?"  
"Molly Hooper."  
"It's nice to meet you Miss Hooper."  
"Yeah, ah, you too." Her eyes flicked around uncertainty.  
"So, may I have a look at that body?"  
"I-I don't know..." she shifted nervously, "So, how do you know Sherlock?" Was she concerned about competition? Oh, god I hope not.  
"Oh, I met him yesterday on a case. Bloody nightmare if you ask me. He doesn't even like me, let alone want me to help him on this bloody case. Then again, I think the same about him." Molly relaxed a little.  
"Oh, well. He can be a little difficult to get along with. You just have to have patience. He can say some really horrible things, he may even think he's being kind while saying them. Other times he can say such nice things, and not even realize how much it means."

That was...a new perspective. I frowned at the wall opposite me. I didn't think Sherlock was capable of any kind of kindness. But then again, he might be nice to Molly and John only. I would understand that. Molly is pretty and I bet he's here a lot. John seems to be his friend...or caretaker...I haven't decided. That seems to warrant a certain amount of kindness. I shook my head. Didn't matter, he didn't like me, and I don't care. I just want to do my job.

"May I go through now, Molly?" Her face fell.  
"Yeah, sure, it's just through that door." I followed her direction and opened the door to the examination room. Of course, inside, looking at three bodies, was Sherlock Holmes. He didn't even register when I came in. Probably didn't care or thought I was Molly checking on him. Taking advantage of this, I stepped forward and began examining the bodies myself. Being sure not to be in direct line of sight of Sherlock, in hopes that his self-centered mind will keep him from registering me for a while. The corpses were slightly blue and very grey. I always hated the look of dead bodies. They were, in essence, a shell. Everything they were was taken away from them. In the case of these bodies, the most noticeable thing missing was their heads. I frowned. The bodies had no indication of bruising or signs of a struggle. They were taken either willingly or unknowingly. I would go for the latter, no one goes willingly to their death. Their bodies all had 'sinner' carved across their chests. It was alarmingly sinister, the typography of the letters. They were so neat and scrolled, it was almost surreal. I lost track in my examination of the bodies that I completely forgot about Sherlock. When I went to lean closer to have a look at the neck wound on one of the bodies, Sherlock had the same idea and we head butted each other.

I reared back my hand at my gun instantaneously on instinct, as silly as that is. Our eyes met and we just stared in confusion for a second at each other.  
"Why are you here?" he asked in a cold voice, his eyes flicked to where my hand sat near my gun. I shook myself and moved my hand away. I was not going to shoot Sherlock for accidentally head butting me.  
"Same reason as you."  
"Why? Don't you have something less irritating to do?"  
"Oh, no. See my favourite form of irritation is you Sherlock," I said in a dead-panned voice. He rolled his eyes at me.  
"Clearly."  
"Look, I don't really want to be anywhere near you right now, as I'm pretty sure your insanity might be contagious, but I have a job to do, and I take that very seriously. So, my proposal to you is that we act like professionals whilst working on this case. As fun as these verbal spars with you are," I finished sarcastically. "I'm not insane," he said as if speaking to an annoying child. "Sure, and I'm not a woman. Point is, I don't have enough patience to deal with an overgrown child, so if we could just do our job, that'd be great."  
"You're insufferable," he mumbled, "I accept." I smiled to myself and turned around to look at the most recent body.

"Who did you kill?" he asked rather suddenly. My hand twitched at my side. I did, however, know what he was doing, it was trick I had, but I knew when to speak and when to not.  
"My partner," I told him still facing away from him. "What drug is your favourite?" He did not answer my question, but rather, he turned around to ignore me. Truthfully, I was more than happy to do the same.  
"Why did you kill them?" he asked in a way that was so devoid of humanity that I felt the urge to slap him.  
"None of your business, Junkie."  
"We're working together and you just said you killed your partner, that is my business, Murderer."  
"Figure it out, If you do, I'll give you a cookie."  
"Really? A challenge then?"  
"Whatever, Sherlock. I'm not interested in games and puzzles."  
"Then why on earth did you take this job?" I turned around to face him to see him with his arms held behind his back. His black curly hair was slightly disheveled from ruffling it up in his work. He looked like a painted stone statue and had about the same emotional depth.  
"Why aren't you an ordinary detective?"  
"Too much paperwork, and I don't get to select my own cases. I prefer this. I am above such petty stupidity."  
"You're pretty much a private detective that the police crawl to for help occasionally."  
"Yes. That's correct. It seems, as much as I detest it, so are you."  
"Yeah, well..."  
"Why didn't you just stay a detective?"  
"Too much paperwork," I replied halfheartedly.  
"John said you read him the other day," he said randomly.  
"Did he?" Sherlock stepped forward and I felt a shiver of intimidation.  
"Normal people don't do what I do, Miss Beckett." I stepped forward, though mainly to console myself.  
"I am not normal, Sherlock Holmes. I am just more human." I turned away from him and took pictures on my mobile of all the things I thought were important and the overall picture and left the room, unable to deal with his interrogation any longer.

The smell of alcohol and grimy people were almost enough to convince me to leave, but my need for a drink out-weighed this option. I was going to turn into an Alcoholic if I hung around Sherlock Holmes too much. I hated that he could read me like I did other people. I didn't know other people could do it as well as I could. The fact that he so horribly ripped open that secret of what happened with my partner, Myles, was aggravating. I know how he did it, I know the exact things he observed that added two and two together and that made me feel horrible. It was like the most ultimate version of being self-conscious, that your clothes, your face and even the way you twitched could show someone your darkest secrets. That's how people felt around me when I was younger and I didn't know how to stop it. The words fell out of my mouth. I thought it would impress them or get them to open up, but I was wrong. It was terrifying. It was why my list of friends were almost non-existent, only because I managed to learn how to control the habit. Now, every observation I make stays in my head. But here was Sherlock. Just like me when I was younger, but colder and harder and with no concept of how much it hurts to feel so vulnerable in front of a stranger. He was everything I wished I would never become. I was probably everything he saw he could not control. It was probably why we clashed so much, so hasty to top each other.

I sculled the rest of my drink and set the glass down heavily. The buzzing in my head was welcoming and numbing.  
"Rough day, love?" a woman's voice asked. I turned to see a woman with scarlet hair and a very pretty face.  
"Yes," I told her with a shrug. She smiled at me.  
"What's wrong?"  
"Work."  
"Ah, well, no point dwelling on that when your drinking now, eh?" she said in a Scottish accent. I smiled a little as I picked up on it.  
"Your right, but my co-workers an absolute bastard," I told her with a slight slur to my words.  
"Ah, male issues. Love, the best thing you can do is top the bastard. Show him your place and show him his," the woman suggested with an evil grin. I smirked at the woman.  
"Yeah, but he's so bloody good at what he does, I think he may even be better than me?"  
"So? Doesn't matter if he is or isn't, it's all about perception. Someone can seem like something they're not, but it's all about the power of illusion. If he thinks your above him, that's all that matters."  
"That's a very strange thing to say," I slur.  
"I'm a strange woman. Don't worry about Sherlock Holmes, he'll crumble soon enough. Trust me. My name is Darcy Mae by the way, and it's so nice to meet you Cassandra."

I woke up the next morning with a killer hang-over and even the dull light of London was making my head churn. Today was a good day to lie in bed and just sleep. my phone buzzed.

**Crime scene. Get here asap.**

Great. I got him to text me the coördinates and I crawled out of bed to meet the harsh reality of the world.


End file.
